


A Scrawny Little Fellow

by Persiflager



Category: Black Books, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:16:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2571170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bernard goes for a quiet drink and makes a new friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scrawny Little Fellow

Bernard was driven from the comforting seclusion of his shop out into the cold, inhospitable night by an absence of booze. What with Manny having forsaken him for some strumpet (who would no doubt be a terrible influence and fill his head with all sorts of nonsense that Bernard would have spend weeks beating back out), Fran being out at one of the ridiculous evening classes that she used to fill the void of her otherwise meaningless existence and that bastard of a shopkeeper at Londis having banned Bernard from his premises following the regrettable Nando’s incident, Bernard was forced to seek refuge in the nearest public house.

‘The Arsonist’s Trousers’ was an unprepossessing establishment with little charm and fewer customers. Bernard sat at the bar and engaged the listless barman in conversation about the relative merits of the various wines on offer, humming and nodding intelligently and stroking his chin at the appropriate moments, then ordered two bottles of the cheapest red and fished around in his coat pockets until he found a half-empty packet of cigarettes.

“No smoking,” said the listless barman.

Bernard paused, unlit cigarette in hand. “Excuse me? Sorry, nicotine withdrawal affects my hearing. I thought you said something completely mad.”

“You’ll have to take it outside,” continued the barman, gesturing at the door. “It’s the law.”

Bernard stared in frank, appalled disbelief. He hadn’t had high hope of the world outside the shop - there were reasons that he lived a sequestered life, after all, and those reasons were other people - but he’d expected to at least stay on this side of the looking-glass. 

“Look, you can go outside and smoke or you can stay in here and drink,” said the barman, making matters worse with each additional word. “Your choice.”

Bernard would have protested further but the barman - a burly, pimply young man with no obvious redeeming features - was starting to narrow his eyes in a way that often indicated a rude eviction in Bernard’s near future. “I shall write to your manager!” he yelled, taking his bottles and glass to the nearest empty table. He sat down, poured himself a glass to steady his frazzled nerves, drank it, re-filled it, and searched in his pockets for quill and writing paper.

He found a pencil stub and a screwed-up receipt. “Close enough,” he muttered to himself, smoothing the paper out flat. “Dear Sir-”

One and a half bottles of wine later, the table was covered in scraps of scribbled-on paper comprising the most lucid, scathing and literary letter of complaint ever to be stained with sticky beer residue. Bernard tucked his pencil behind his ear with a ‘ha!’ of satisfaction and read the letter out to himself once more before looking up to find a man sitting sitting opposite him.

He was a scrawny little fellow with an over-large forehead and suspiciously neat eyebrows, and was wearing a big woolly cardigan that was hideous and therefore must have been fashionable.

“Piss off.”

The fellow’s smile broadened, showing off two rows of perfect white shiny teeth. “Oh, you’re Irish? So am I.” 

His accent was light and made Bernard feel uncomfortably nostalgic. “Splendid, we have so much in common. Potatoes, whiskey, the English are all a bunch of bastards. Lovely chat. Now piss off.”

“The thing is,” said the man, apparently impervious to Bernard’s glaring, “you’ve got just the look I’m looking for. I don’t suppose you act at all?”

Bernard couldn’t help straightening up a little in his chair. “I might have trodden the boards once or twice,” he said, narrowly resisting the urge to toss his head. “In my youth.”

“Would you fancy doing a bit of film work? I’d pay you for your time, of course.”

Bernard played it cool by topping up his glass and sipping in a refined manner, pinky finger crooked. “Perhaps,” he said, voice dropping to baritone as the old fantasy came back to him – applauding audience, admiring actresses, a vast expanse of stage on which to stamp about shouting. “What would it involve?”

“Oh, it’s dead easy. You’d be the villain, of course - not much screen-time but it’s the most interesting role.” The man grinned.

“Naturally,” said Bernard, nodding in what he hoped was an understanding fashion.

“You’d play a criminal mastermind,” said the man, hunching forward. “A cold-blooded genius. Role of a lifetime, really. Your character abducts some kids from a posh boarding school - great location by the way, it’ll look fab on screen. And we’re going totally method with the filming, obviously. All hidden camera stuff.”

“Children?” said Bernard, frowning.

The man waved his hand. “Oh, they’re a pair of pros. No trouble at all. Really get into their roles, you know?”

Bernard didn’t know. Bernard didn’t care. Bernard was drunk on the tantalising prospect of fame (and also on red wine). This could be his big break! Sure, it would be crassly commercial but when his natural talents shone through the critics would inevitably recognise him for the gifted thespian that he truly was and then he could use his new-found influence to get proper works staged. ‘Ulysses’ was just crying out to be done as a musical.

Gazing at his new chum, Bernard gifted him with a gracious smile that behooved a theatrical gentleman of his (soon to be) standing.

“When would we start?”

The man smiled, his eyes glinting. “Well, I-”

“Bernard!” came a loud, loutish cry from the far side of the pub, which had filled up at some point over the past couple of hours. “Bernard! Where are you?”

The man looked at Bernard. “You have a friend.”

“That’s not a friend, that’s an errant employee,” said Bernard, hunching lower in his seat. “Now-”

“Bernard!” This voice was higher-pitched and cut through the noise of the crowd like a chainsaw. “Don’t listen to what Manny says, this is definitely his fault and also I’m your oldest friend so you have to take my side.”

“Friends, even,” said the man, eyebrows raised. 

“That’s the neighborhood madwoman, don’t listen to a word she says.”

A heavy hand landed on Bernard’s shoulder and he was forced to look up into the faces of two gibbering idiots.

“There you are!” said Manny, moon-faced and wearing that ridiculous bobble hat that made Bernard’s fingers itch for a pair of scissors. “Listen, you’ve got to-”

“Who's your friend?” said Fran, looking past him.

Bernard twisted round to see that the seat opposite him was now empty. “Oh well done. You two have once again contrived to ruin any chance at happiness or success that I might-”

“Yes yes, shut up,” said Fran, sliding into the seat next to him and setting a stuffed weasel on the table. “We need you to settle an argument.”

“Well, more of a debate.” Manny took the stranger’s chair, erasing even the shadow of his presence with clumsy inevitability. “The thing is-”

As their nonsensical babble washed over him Bernard raised his glass, drained it in a silent, melancholy toast to missed opportunities, and spared an idle thought to wonder who would fill the role that should rightfully have been his.

Lucky bastard.


End file.
